


to feed the wanting that we are

by Damkianna



Category: The Firm (TV)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Complicated Relationships, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Issues, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Manhandling, Rough Sex, Something Made Them Do It, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: There was an instant, right then, when he was sure they were both fucked. McDeere was going to blow it, one way or another: jerk out from under Joey's hand, demand to know what the fuck he thought he was doing. Do or say something he shouldn't have dared to do or say to Joey Morolto Jr., with every single one of Joey's top lieutenants looking on, and there wouldn't be any coming back from that.But after one impossibly long, taut moment, McDeere drew an uneven breath and lowered his eyes, and moved with the pressure of Joey's hand.(Or: Joey stops just short of making Mitch suck him off to prove a point—but then things get a little out of control. Who could have expected that?)
Relationships: Mitch McDeere/Joey Morolto Jr.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	to feed the wanting that we are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> This started out as a gift meant to fill your a m a z i n g "Joey has to assert control over Mitch in front of his men = dubcon" prompt ... so I'm not totally sure why it went sideways from there and turned into a "Joey finds himself in a position where he needs to rely on Mitch / crumbles under the pressure and needs to give up control" story. /o\ BUT I hope you enjoy the result, Sandrine, and that you've had a wonderful Chocolate Box! ♥
> 
> This contains a lot of dubcon, plus or minus deliberately withholding consent in order to specifically indulge in having that lack ignored. I'm not totally sure what to call that, but the "consensual non-consent" tag seemed closest to capturing the spirit of it. Title from the poem "[Heat](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47094/heat-56d2274e2d783)" by Jane Hirshfield.

"You're asking us to risk our lives for this guy."

Joey gritted his teeth, and resisted the urge to let his head drop forward and rub his eyes. How many goddamn times were they going to have to go over this? "Yes," he said aloud, slow and even, and kept his eyes on Carlo, didn't so much as fucking blink. "I am."

"The man who put your father in prison," Carlo pressed, because either he couldn't tell how frayed Joey's patience was getting or he just didn't give a shit.

Joey pressed his lips together in a line, and raised his eyebrows real high. He looked at Carlo, and then he turned his head and looked at McDeere, standing there uncomfortably a stride away from the table: squinted a little, let his eyes slide from McDeere's head to his feet and back again, as though he somehow hadn't recognized McDeere till right this second.

It was for Carlo's benefit; Joey wasn't looking at McDeere for the sake of looking at him. But it would have been hard not to notice McDeere was pissed. His face, the set of his jaw, those blue eyes throwing sparks. Because he wasn't any happier about this whole arrangement than Carlo—it was just that with McDeere, that only made the whole thing more satisfying. Joey felt a flicker of smug amusement, and it was suddenly easier to look back across the table at Carlo and tilt his head.

"Well, how about that. You might just be right," Joey said, in a marveling tone. And then, sharp, he brought the flat of his hand down with a crack against the table edge, and was distantly pleased when almost everybody flinched a little—even Carlo. "You think I don't know that? Huh? You think maybe I _forgot_ the particulars of exactly what I owe McDeere?"

He kept his voice soft, let his inflection make it inescapably clear that what he owed McDeere was more along the lines of "a slow excruciating death" than anything else.

And Carlo picked up what Joey was putting down. Joey could tell that by the way his shoulders dropped, the barest fraction reassured.

But he kept his chin up, mulish, and said, "Then what the hell are we doing, boss? Why are you standing here telling us this coglione is under our family's protection, when he'd turn around and sell us to the feds without blinking if he got half a chance?"

The hell of it was, Joey thought grimly, it wasn't like he could claim Carlo was wrong. It was probably true. He had McDeere on a leash, sure—for now. And if he felt that leash slipping, he was going to have to do something about it. He couldn't afford not to.

But there was also a very fundamental point here that everybody at this goddamn table was overlooking.

And Joey was going to have to fix that.

"Because," Joey bit out, "he's _mine_."

McDeere jerked in the edge of Joey's peripheral vision, like he wanted to argue—because of course he did, it was motherfucking McDeere. But apparently he also took a good long look at the dozen unhappy mafiosi in front of him and decided discretion was the better part of valor: for once, miraculous, he kept his stupid mouth shut.

"You think he'd be working for me right now if he weren't?" Joey went on, and didn't look over at McDeere; like he didn't have to, like he was as sure as he needed to sound. "You think he doesn't know exactly what kind of position he's in here? McDeere belongs to me and he knows it," and fuck, fuck, it wasn't enough, he could see it in Carlo's face. It wasn't going to be enough, not quite. He needed something else, needed to tip them over the line into believing it.

This hadn't been part of the game plan. Joey had gotten McDeere here, had told him how this was going to play out—but they were off the edge of that map now, and fuck only knew whether McDeere realized it.

But Joey couldn't pause, couldn't hesitate. He was already standing; that made it easier to take the half-step over, grip McDeere by the back of the neck and lean in close. "Don't you, McDeere?" Joey murmured, low, against the shell of McDeere's ear.

"Joey," McDeere said warningly, though at least he had the sense to keep his voice down. His face was pale, tense, blue eyes standing out even bluer for it, the barest hot angry color starting to burn high in his cheeks.

Joey dug in a little with his fingertips, warning McDeere right back, and McDeere's throat moved in a stutter as he swallowed. And then Joey moved his hand just a little, curled his fingers tight in McDeere's hair—had to, really, because it was so short.

There was an instant, right then, when he was sure they were both fucked. McDeere was going to blow it, one way or another: jerk out from under Joey's hand, demand to know what the fuck he thought he was doing. Do or say something he shouldn't have dared to do or say to Joey Morolto Jr., with every single one of Joey's top lieutenants looking on, and there wouldn't be any coming back from that.

But after one impossibly long, taut moment, McDeere drew an uneven breath and lowered his eyes, and moved with the pressure of Joey's hand.

The swoop of relief, the sudden unanticipated swing from helpless dread to gratification, was so intense it was almost dizzying. Joey wet his lips and steadied himself. Okay. All right. Maybe they'd survive this after all.

He had a vague picture of McDeere on the floor—kissing Joey's shoes, maybe. Something a little showy, a little melodramatic, that would make Joey's point without question. Undeniably humiliating, or at least it would be in the eyes of everybody else in this room; but McDeere would snap and snarl if Joey tried to make anything out of it later, tell him it hadn't meant a damn thing, and only make Joey itch that much harder to prove him wrong—

It would be fine, was the point. It would work, and every time McDeere got in his face after this, Joey would be able to pull out the memory and savor it. Pretty good deal, all told.

There was half of another thought lurking, sure. Of course there was. Couldn't avoid it, with his hand in McDeere's hair, McDeere tense and angry and still, still, letting Joey force him to his knees. Couldn't avoid considering a couple other things he wouldn't mind making McDeere do while he was down there. McDeere looked up at him again like he knew it, a hard split-second glare, and Joey's grip in his hair was tipping his head back just a little now, baring his throat over that nice neat tie of his.

Nobody needed to have eyes that fucking blue. Christ.

So, yeah, it crossed his mind. He maybe wavered, for an instant. Clenched his hand a little tighter—drew McDeere an inch closer, McDeere's head level with his hips, just because he could. Just to know what it would feel like.

McDeere was going to pull back against it, obviously. McDeere was going to pull back, twist away, and Joey could make a show out of that, too; chide him mockingly, and twist his hair a little harder. Maybe Joey should lift a foot, prop it against the edge of the table, and then shove McDeere at it. Make sure everybody could see it, when McDeere got a nice long taste of all that Italian leather. That would work.

McDeere was going to pull back against it, but Joey could handle it. He'd get a little extra fun out of it, and then he'd do what he had to. He was ready for it.

Except McDeere didn't do it.

Joey was expecting resistance, had adjusted his grip for it so McDeere wouldn't get loose. When it didn't come, he was thrown, bewildered. He ended up standing there watching himself tug McDeere's head in against his thigh, a single smooth motion like he'd planned it. And McDeere's jaw was tight, McDeere's eyes coming up again, hot furious stare fixed on Joey—but McDeere let it happen.

McDeere _let it happen_.

He'd gotten the wrong idea somehow, Joey thought distantly. He figured this was what Joey was asking him to do, _telling_ him to do. And he was doing it.

A shock of heat blazed up Joey's spine. He gazed down at McDeere, and let his eyes get heavy, and—yeah, okay, this would work too. This would work too, as long as Joey played it right. Like it was punishment, like a display of power. Like it was something Joey let McDeere do to appease him, made McDeere do to remind him of his place.

Fuck, Joey thought, and tried not to shiver.

His cock had been heavy, starting to swell in his slacks, just turning the idea over idly; but he was getting harder now, staring down at McDeere's face between his thighs. He tilted his head like he was thinking things over. And then he used his hand in McDeere's hair to tilt McDeere's head, too, and tugged until McDeere's closed mouth was pressed against his fly.

McDeere was tense under his hand. But he still didn't pull away, and Joey huffed out half a laugh, breathless, filled with a strange bittersweet glee.

Jesus Christ, McDeere was going with it.

For a single white-hot instant, Joey couldn't help but wonder exactly how much McDeere would let him get away with. But Carlo and the rest of them—they wanted a demonstration, not live porn. And if Joey actually got his cock in Mitch McDeere's mouth, he really did not need anybody looking at him; he didn't want to think what the hell they might see.

He tightened his hand, yanked a little on McDeere's hair. "Come on," he murmured. "Don't be shy."

The look in McDeere's eyes was incensed, glaring daggers. But Joey just smiled down at him, and after a second McDeere swallowed once, twice, and let his mouth fall open the barest fraction.

"You know who's in charge here, don't you, McDeere?" Joey said softly.

And then, not trying to hide the motion at all, he used his hand on McDeere's head to force McDeere's head up and down: a slow repeating nod of _yes_ , that just so happened to drag McDeere's half-open mouth at an awkward angle along Joey's clothed dick. Luxurious, unhurried; up and back, up and back.

Fuck, fuck—

"That's right," Joey agreed. "Of course you do. You work for me, you do what I say."

McDeere stared up at him, furious and silent. And Joey drew a sharp little breath and did it again, gripped McDeere's head and nodded it for him—let his hips shift into the motion ever so slightly, and McDeere made a soft half-strangled noise somewhere deep in his throat, and god, fuck, that was hot too.

"You understand what it means," Joey added, "that you're under my protection. You understand how generous I am to you, McDeere, huh?"

His slacks had gone damp, now, against McDeere's mouth; McDeere's breath was coming faster, and Joey could _feel_ it there. McDeere squeezed his eyes shut, and Joey pretended that constituted some kind of concession and did it one more time: pressed the increasingly clear outline of his cock forward against McDeere's parted lips, the slant of his cheek, and moved McDeere's face against it, felt the fabric of his slacks catching against McDeere's stubble and half-wished he'd yanked his fly open and shoved his cock down McDeere's throat after all.

He drew a breath, and let it out, and then made himself grin—lazy, pleased, half his mouth. He knew what he looked like, right now, to Carlo, to Sal, to all of them. Smug and languid, color high, breathing a little too hard, and gazing down with satisfaction at McDeere.

He looked up, met Carlo's eyes and smiled wider, full of teeth. "There," he said. "I think we all know where we stand now. So unless there's anything else ... ?"

He hadn't moved otherwise, hadn't let go of McDeere. The message was obvious: anybody who did have anything else to discuss was going to shove it and leave the room, so Joey could make his pet lawyer suck him off properly.

"Understood, boss," Carlo said.

Joey kept his hand tight in McDeere's hair, and settled the other heavily at the nape of McDeere's neck. A warning not to move, and McDeere must have gotten the message, because he stayed there on his knees while everybody filed out the door—right up until Joey gave Sal, the last one out, a nod, and Sal nodded back and left too.

The door closed. There was a moment's silence, and then a soft click. That was Sal for you. Always so considerate.

And then McDeere twisted out from under Joey's hands, caught Joey's wrists in a vicious grip and shoved them away, and lurched with a jerk to his feet. He looked _infuriated_ —the angriest Joey had ever seen him, and that was saying something. His mouth was a thin harsh line in his face, his jaw working, his eyes hard, and all told he was probably about two seconds away from punching Joey in the head.

And Joey was just going to have to hope McDeere didn't spare a glance for Joey's dick for the rest of this conversation. Because he was still hard as nails, and McDeere standing there brimming over with bright rage wasn't helping one bit.

McDeere stayed silent, for a second. Fighting with himself, visibly—trying to figure out what the fuck to say, Joey thought, where to even start. Whether there was anything that wasn't going to sound ridiculous, obscene, or both. _Don't ever rub your dick against my face again, Joey_ —

"Was that _really_ necessary?" McDeere bit out at last, looking like he couldn't even believe he was asking.

Joey spread his hands with an expansive shrug, and smiled. "Hey, it worked," he said. "What, you aren't going to thank me, Mitch?"

"Yes, of course," McDeere snapped, "the thing that's uppermost in my mind right now is definitely your generosity."

Bad choice of words. _You understand how generous I am to you, McDeere, huh?_ The echoes left by saying it were still rattling around in Joey's head, and McDeere obviously heard them too—he went pale, and then red, stark and hot across the lines of his cheekbones, the tips of his ears.

"Look," Joey said, mild, "they needed a reason to believe I'm not just handing the guy who put my father in prison a free pass. We gave them one. End of story. All my apologies if your professional pride got a little scuffed in the process—"

"My—?" McDeere cut himself off; shook his head sharply, incredulous. "Yeah, that's the problem here: me and my _pride_."

"If you'd rather I'd shot you in the head," Joey murmured, "that can be arranged for next time, believe me."

He kept the smile on his face, widened it, at the same time he put a little extra edge in his voice—a warning, that McDeere was starting to push closer than he should to the limits of Joey's temper. And it was true enough. Wasn't entirely temper that had Joey's blood rushing so hot, Joey's heart pounding, Joey's stupid goddamn cock still hard in his pants. But McDeere really didn't need to know that.

Possibly Joey should've remembered that McDeere never reacted to Joey's warnings the way he was supposed to.

Because McDeere didn't back off, didn't back down. His eyes flashed, and his jaw tightened. "Yeah? And how exactly are you going to explain that to them, after that little display? After you went to so much _trouble_ to make sure they'd be willing to keep me alive for you after all—"

Joey took a sharp stride forward, and jabbed a hand into McDeere's face. "I don't have to explain _shit_ ," he snapped. "I _am_ in charge here, Mitch, and sooner or later you're going to have to get the hell in line. Am I making myself clear?"

For a long stretched-out moment, he thought it had worked. McDeere stood there looking at him, still and silent, color high and mouth pursed tight—not arguing, not moving. Like maybe he had half a sense of self-preservation after all, Joey thought irritatedly, and tried not to define that irritation too carefully.

He didn't _want_ McDeere pushing back on this. He didn't. Joey was in charge; he had to be. He'd _taken_ charge, when dear old Dad finally kicked the bucket, and he'd known long before he'd had to do it that he would never be able to give it up again. He couldn't afford to. He was Joey Morolto Jr., and the entire family was depending on him—he had to have it handled, he had to be two steps ahead of everybody and everything around him. He had to stay in control, and nobody could be allowed to take it from him.

So it was good, that McDeere was going to back down. The sooner McDeere got the idea and stopped being such a gigantic fucking thorn in Joey's side, the better. Joey told himself this, and kept looking steadily at McDeere, unflinching, and let out a slow breath.

And then McDeere's eyes narrowed. McDeere's eyes narrowed, and turned abruptly piercing; and he knocked Joey's hand aside and then _pushed_ Joey.

McDeere didn't do things like that. McDeere was always surprised, doe-eyed and innocent, in the face of a display of force—like he'd been arguing things out in courtrooms for so long he'd forgotten there was any other way to make your point.

So Joey wasn't expecting it at all. McDeere was tall, strong. Joey stumbled a little, catching himself against the wall behind him, and McDeere followed him, didn't let up.

"Are you?" McDeere snapped. "Is that what got your dick hard back there, Joey? How _in charge_ you were? Because the way I see it, you were backed into a corner. You had to make a play, there was no other choice, and if you hadn't pulled it off we'd both have been screwed," and jesus, jesus; Joey had to squeeze his eyes shut, just for a second, just listening to McDeere's rough pissed-off voice laying it all out like that.

Because yeah, okay, he'd been balanced on a knife's edge for a minute or two there. If Carlo, Sal, any of them, had seen a crack showing, or if McDeere hadn't gone along—who knew what the fuck might have happened, but whatever it would've been, it wouldn't have been good.

And that instant, that instant when Joey hadn't been sure which way he'd tip, hand twisted tight in McDeere's hair and his pulse racing so hard he could feel it in his throat, waiting to see what McDeere would do—

Joey swallowed, and bit the inside of his cheek hard, and made himself stop thinking about it. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter.

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about, McDeere," he said aloud, sharp.

But McDeere didn't flinch. "You were over a barrel," he said, and his eyes were heavy, steady, on Joey's face. "It was all on the line for you, and—"

He stopped. He still had a hand on Joey's chest, spread out, and Joey should've pushed it away, he—he would in just a second, but in the meantime McDeere's hand was wide and strong and felt like it was burning right through Joey's fucking shirt.

"And," McDeere added slowly, "there wasn't a damn thing you could do about it. You weren't in charge of shit, Joey. If anybody was—" He stopped again, and wet his lips; and his eyes were burning too, even hotter than his goddamn hand, all the air in the room eaten up at once. "If anybody was, it was me. Wasn't it?"

This couldn't happen, Joey thought dimly. McDeere couldn't get the better of him. He couldn't allow it.

There was a threat here, but it wasn't McDeere. Because it should have been infuriating, that McDeere was holding him here, pressing him back into the wall, brazenly acting out this pathetic imitation of intimidation like he was feeling out the shape of it in a dark room. It _was_ infuriating; but Joey was clinging to that rage by a thread, something else hot and shuddering and far less forgivable roiling up beneath it.

He couldn't yield. With the choice in front of him, he always had and always would choose to assert himself: to take control. He _had_ to. He was always going to have to. The truth of that fact stretched out before him, endless and exhausting, inevitable, inescapable.

But if McDeere took the choice away from him—if McDeere _made_ him yield, and there was nothing he could do about it, the refusal Joey would have demanded of himself rendered utterly impossible—

Jesus, this was the most danger he'd ever been in in his entire life, and he was counting automatic weapons fire in the tally. He had to get the fuck out of this room. He had to get the fuck away from McDeere.

But his body was already betraying him. His breaths were coming fast, harsh in his own ears; his chest was heaving under McDeere's goddamn motherfucking hand; his eyes were hot and his knees were trembling and he was so hard he couldn't fucking think.

He couldn't give in. He couldn't. He knew that.

And then his eyes met McDeere's, and he realized with a terrible, treacherous jolt that he wasn't going to have to. McDeere was going to make him after all.

Because McDeere was staring at him, and whatever he was seeing, it apparently wasn't enough to make him let go.

"Jesus," McDeere said softly, more to himself than to Joey. "Jesus, this cannot be happening," and Joey laughed, thin, choking on it, and he was still laughing when McDeere reached down and gripped his cock through his slacks.

Joey sucked in a breath and made a harsh protesting sound—jerked, and pushed at McDeere, and twisted his hips away as far as he could.

But it wasn't far enough. McDeere rode out the push and just pressed closer, crowded Joey tighter against the wall and pinned him with a forearm across his chest; shoved a knee between Joey's thighs and forced them apart, so Joey didn't have the angle or the leverage to kick him.

Joey tried anyway. He gasped, thrashed—spat out, "Get the fuck off me," and fisted his hands in McDeere's suit jacket.

McDeere just swayed in closer.

"No," he said, almost gently, right into Joey's ear, and Joey shuddered all over without meaning to, eyes stinging, and made a strange helpless noise, and couldn't stand it. God, he couldn't stand it.

But of course it didn't matter. It wasn't up to him.

If it had been, he'd have had to do something. He'd have had to reassert himself, win back control and keep it, and make it clear to McDeere that nothing like this was ever going to happen again. That was the trap of it, and it was a trap that had already long since closed tight around him; and if anybody else had ever looked close enough to see that, they'd never cared. But now, suddenly, McDeere had seen it. McDeere had seen it, and was prying it open, even if it was only going to be for ten minutes. And Joey was so helplessly, sickeningly grateful he thought distantly he might die of it.

He tried. He had to try; he was supposed to try. He strained against McDeere's grip—it only tightened. He braced his arms, used his elbows—McDeere pressed closer, so he had no room to swing. He writhed, wild, a burst of desperation; McDeere held on through it, waited it out and pinned him again when it was over, and Joey screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip against the sheer overpowering flood of relief: the luxury of it, the impossible heady freedom.

"Shh," McDeere said, and closed his hand around the outline Joey's cock was making in his pants, rubbed it. Joey felt the shape of a sob in his throat and tried to swallow it away, tried to evade the touch, and couldn't— _couldn't_. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. McDeere had him.

God.

"Shh," McDeere said again, and then, as if he'd heard the thought Joey would never have spoken, "I've got you. Here. Come here."

Joey wouldn't have done it if McDeere had been asking. He couldn't have. But McDeere wasn't. He was—they were already moving. McDeere had one hand around Joey's cock, closed the other tight around both of Joey's wrists at once; and just—took him, _led_ him, by the arms and the fucking _dick_ , the half-dozen strides to the table.

"McDeere," Joey gritted out. "McDeere—"

"I was in charge," McDeere repeated, as if they were just continuing their conversation. "You didn't know what I would do; and if I did the wrong thing in front of Carlo, in front of all of them, it would have ruined everything." He stopped right there for a second, with Joey backed up against the table, McDeere holding him there—and Joey didn't know what to call the look on McDeere's face: grave, intent, something around the brows that was almost puzzled, or—or starting not to be, revelation dawning. "You'd put yourself in my hands, and you knew it. Jesus Christ, Joey—"

"Shut up," Joey spat, and thrashed again, but—yes, yes, god; thank god—it was no good. McDeere had him, and wasn't letting go.

"I don't think so," McDeere said quietly.

And then he twisted Joey around roughly in his grip, and shoved him down, and bent him over the table.

He'd let go of Joey's dick, which turned out to be so he could get a better grasp on Joey's wrists—force them up behind Joey, trap them at the small of Joey's back, and then close them tight in one hand again. Joey swore at him raggedly, squirmed hard; but all that did was press Joey's aching cock sharply against the table edge.

"I've got you," McDeere said again, in that steady earnest way Joey despised. And then he reached under Joey with his free hand, caught the top of Joey's fly with his fingertips—undid it, one excruciating inch at a time. "You hear me? I've got you. You're not going anywhere," and Joey breathed out harshly against the tabletop, turned his hot face into the smooth surface, because it was true, terribly, gloriously: he couldn't get away. He couldn't get away from McDeere, no matter how hard he tried. All he could do was strain against McDeere's grip, and take whatever McDeere chose to give him, and it was so fucking good he didn't know how he was going to survive it.

McDeere shoved his slacks down around his thighs, his briefs haphazardly after them—touched his cock, casual, proprietary, like he was just assessing what he had to work with here, and Joey did sob then, once, sharp, against the table.

The sound of it made him furious, and he jerked in McDeere's grasp, twisted and struggled, abruptly frantic.

McDeere didn't falter. Joey's arms ached, he was—he couldn't keep it up. He had to subside, gasping, eyes wet; and his cock was so hard he could feel it against his belly, and a moment later McDeere's hand was on it again, and Joey cried out.

McDeere felt the length of it, stroked it once and then again; ran his thumb gently around the edge of the head, and Joey shook and shook and couldn't stop it.

"Hm," McDeere said, absent, and took a half-step forward so that his thighs were pressed to the backs of Joey's, his hips to Joey's bare ass—and his slacks were still fastened, but the shape he was pressing against Joey there was pretty fucking unmistakable. Jesus Christ, he was hard too.

Joey felt sideswiped, blistered, by the knowledge. That was why he didn't realize what was happening until McDeere was already leaning over him: grasping Joey's face, his chin, with the hand that had just been around Joey's dick, and turning it so Joey's cheek was pressed flat to the table. And then he shoved two fingers into Joey's mouth.

Joey heard himself groan around them, and wanted to fucking die.

"Good," McDeere said above him, gentle.

Joey bit down on his knuckles in retaliation, because what the fuck did McDeere think he was doing, anyway. And McDeere laughed—just a breath through his nose—and leaned down closer still.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he murmured, against the shell of Joey's ear. "You can't want it. You can't want it even when you do. But I'm going to give it to you anyway, and there's nothing you can do about it." He slid his fingers free; and then he rubbed the back of his thumb along Joey's jaw, and he said softly, "You're doing what you have to do. It's not your fault that it isn't going to work. Okay? It's not your fault."

Joey squeezed his eyes shut, and strained with his trapped hands—found McDeere's forearm and dug his nails in hard, punishing.

But McDeere didn't let go of him. McDeere didn't let go of him, and said it again: "You're trying as hard as you can. You're making me work for every inch of this, and it's not your fault."

And then he reached down again, and stroked the underside of Joey's dick with those wet fingers, and Joey couldn't do anything but let him.

He felt scorched, incandescent, unmade. McDeere's hands were steady and sure, and touched Joey everywhere, places Joey could never have let them go if he'd had the choice: every inch of his cock; and his balls, the tight heavy shape of them—the obscenely tender place just behind them; and his ass, the creases at the tops of his thighs. Joey trembled his way through all of it, spat inarticulate curses at McDeere and thrashed against the table, proved to himself over and over again that he couldn't stop McDeere, couldn't free himself— _had_ to let it happen, faced his own inexorable defeat anew over and over again, compulsive, glorious, addictive.

He was proud of himself, distantly, that it took as long as it did. It felt like he'd been hard for hours, the edge of the table smeared and dripping where the wet head of his cock got shoved against it every time he struggled against McDeere's grasp. But it wasn't until McDeere slid two fingers down to press against his hole—rubbed his thumb along the rim, testing, and then forced it just barely inside—that Joey really started to fall apart.

He became aware dimly that he was saying, "No," over and over again. For an instant, he was terrified McDeere would listen to him—would stop. Because it would be just like McDeere, wouldn't it? To hold fast, stand firm, as long as Joey was fighting him for it, and then back down, decent and buttoned-up and civilized, as soon as Joey _asked_.

But McDeere didn't stop.

And Joey's body wasn't listening to him any more than McDeere was; his cock was _throbbing_ , hardly touched, blood pounding through him, and he was so fucking close—how was he so fucking close? He couldn't be. He couldn't. This couldn't happen.

"Come on," McDeere said. "You're almost there, aren't you? I'm not going to let you get out of this. I'm not going to let you go. Do it."

"No," Joey said, thin, half-muffled against the surface of the table. "No, no—"

"Yes," McDeere told him, and pushed those two fingers in, both at once, sudden and rough and impossible to prevent, and Joey came and came and came.

The table was cool, solid. It had been a little while, long enough that his breaths had almost evened all the way back out. That was the only sound he could hear; it was quiet otherwise.

Joey opened his eyes.

McDeere had let go of his wrists, he discovered. He directed all his attention, all his concentration, toward pushing himself unsteadily up off the surface of the table, and was rewarded with success.

He looked down at himself. Rocking and twisting and squirming against the table as he'd come, he'd rubbed a hell of a stain into the bottom of his shirt. But his suit jacket looked fine. He could button it closed; that would cover the worst of the damage pretty well, at least temporarily.

He reached down, and jerkily tugged his slacks, his underwear, back up. He didn't want to look, tried to touch his cock as little as possible—because every brush of his fingers was a jolt, a shocky burst of electricity along his nerves, his cock soft and wet and wildly oversensitized; because his stupid dick was what had gotten him into this mess, and fuck, fuck, he didn't even want to think about it.

He didn't want to; but he was going to have to. He was going to have to. It was his responsibility. He was in charge again, and everything about that thought was fucking exhausting.

This was a disaster, and he had to make sure it never happened again. He had to close that door tight, solder it shut—right at the moment when McDeere had just finished forcing him to acknowledge exactly how much he wanted to swing it wide and walk through it instead.

He squeezed his burning eyes shut, and swallowed hard.

And then he lifted his chin, and turned around, and looked at McDeere.

McDeere was wetting his lips, looking down with wry chagrin at his hand—at his own slacks, not even undone, creased and wet because—

Because he'd come too, Joey realized. Rubbed himself off somewhere at the end there, probably against the backs of Joey's thighs.

The thought had knocked Joey off track. He shook himself a little, reminded himself of everything he needed to say to McDeere; but that extra fraction of a moment was all McDeere needed. McDeere was already moving, reaching out. He touched Joey's face, the corner of Joey's mouth, and looked at him with those blue fucking eyes. And Joey was so surprised by it that he forgot to move away, and then McDeere kissed him.

Not hard, not deep. Firm, a steady press of his mouth to Joey's.

"Joey," McDeere said quietly, after it was over. "I understand. Okay?"

Joey laughed. He couldn't help it. McDeere, McDeere and his _wife_ , his kid; his clean fucking life; what the fuck did he understand about anything?

But he didn't say any of that. McDeere looked at him some more, and Joey closed his eyes and let it happen. And after a second McDeere breathed out harshly, and muttered, "Jesus Christ, this is such a terrible idea," and kissed Joey again—wetter, lingering, like he knew better and he still couldn't help it.

Joey opened up for it, took it. It wasn't the same; but it was damn close.

And then, when he couldn't bear it anymore, he put his hands to McDeere's shoulders and pushed him off—and this time McDeere went.

"All right, all right," Joey made himself say, "enough, jesus. Cut that out."

He tried, he did. It came out okay, maybe. A little unsteadier than it should have. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, and for a second—

For a second, it was just like before. He didn't know what McDeere was going to do, which way he was going to go. Whether he was going to leave Joey hanging, or save his fucking life.

But McDeere looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then held up his hands: palm-out, cautious. Letting Joey do what he had to; helping him get it done, even though Joey couldn't force him to.

"Whatever you say, Joey," he murmured. "You're the boss."

"Damn right," Joey said sharply, and breathed in deep, and felt everything settle back into place. "We're done here."

"Sure," McDeere agreed. And then he tilted his head, and his mouth slanted just a little. "But if there's anything you need—you know where to find me."

Joey looked away, and wet his lips.

McDeere was full of shit. He didn't—he didn't mean that the way it sounded. He couldn't. Once, when Joey couldn't stop it; fine. But this wasn't something Joey could just have. This wasn't something that was allowed.

He looked at McDeere, and swallowed.

"Yeah, yeah," he made himself say. "Go on, get out."

McDeere went. And Joey stood there and watched him go, and didn't move.

It wasn't going to happen again. He wasn't going to let it. But there were going to be plenty more meetings in Joey's car, in McDeere's office late at night, and—

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn't going to be up to Joey to decide.


End file.
